The Last Hurrah
by Doctor Vile
Summary: A tale of deathmatches and self indulgence, brought to you by the producer of Christmas at Liquid's and Legacy of Blood. What could that title mean?


**The Last Hurrah**  
by Chicken Fox

"Cheer up, Snake, it's not that bad."

Otacon blatantly lied to his best friend as he took a sip of sweet Grolsch lager from his flagon, patting his compatriot on the back as he did so. Luckily, Snake was too shitfaced to notice, and beyond the point of being able to rip an annoying Otaku fan's arm off with a single click of his fingers. He simply turned his head, which was resting on his folded arms on the bar, to face his addresser.

"Not that bad?" Snake slurred incoherently. "Not that bad?"

Otacon forced a patronising smile. "Of course not. Worse things happen at sea."

"Look, Octagon," Snake spat barely audible words. "How… how can you possibly sit there and say it's 'not that bad'?"

"Well," Otacon replied after a few seconds of deciphering. "What exactly is troubling you?"

"What, apart from the fact Meryl left me and kicked me in the balls in front of an arena of the world's press?" The former FoxHound operative asked rhetorically. "Well, uh, just the fact that, that Video Game Deathmatch has been cancelled and Tommy Vercetti has been replaced by some 'gangsta' dude in the Grand Theft Auto series."

"So… you mean you can't get your revenge?"

"Prec… presy… exactly," The Living Legend replied before taking another swig of ale. "Plush, I'm not even the star of Metal Gear any more!"

"Oh, Snake," Otacon rolled his eyes with a parent's fake exasperation. "Everyone knows that was really you in Metal Gear Solid 3! You were just playing your dad!"

"Yeah… yeah, whatever."

"And anyway," Otacon continued. "On the Meryl front, I wouldn't worry too much…"

"Shut up," Snake said, knowing what was coming next.

"…There's plenty more fish in the sea…"

"Shut the fuck up."

"…And if you love her, you should let her go…"

"Shut the fuck up right now, Otacon."

"…After all, life is like a box of chocolates…"

"Fuckin' shut up now!" The Master of Stealth got up clumsily from his barstool. "'Fore I fuckin' deck ya!"

"…You never know just what you're gonna get."

Snake thought about smacking the spectacled computer genius, but decided instead to go and cool off. After all, he didn't really want to hit a guy with a girl on his arm.

Yep, things had sure been tough for the Metal Gear-hunting Mercenary. Ever since Video Deathmatch had started about a year ago he'd been humiliated, had his girlfriend kidnapped, been sealed in an air-tight room, been forced to commentate, been beaten up by a foul-mouthed drug pusher and an undercover cop, been dumped and kicked in the groin by the love of his life, taken an overdose of red and blue pills which had made him act like SamandMax on fine skunk, been hunted through a city/boat by sadistic rapists, knocked out cold, and a load of other really nasty stuff that I need not go into here. And now there he was, sitting on his own in a rundown bar, watching his nerdy companion make out with a sexy Chinese schoolgirl.

Deathmatch, his one creative (well, destructive) outlet had been put on hiatus due to lazy writers and soon cancelled while the author "moved on" to claiming that he was too grown up to write "gay little stories about gays". An unsuccessful start to a singing career had left Snake's career in tatters: he was now addicted to cheap lager and very short on 'enemies', i.e. posturing weirdoes for Snake to shoot in the head dramatically and listen to them die in twenty minute cut-scenes. He was a washed-up hero in a washed-up existence.

"Look, Snake," an annoyingly sweet female voice said. The World's Greatest Soldier managed to move his eyes away from Mei-Ling's chest and look her in the face as she approached. "I think I know what you're going through."

"What, a midlife crisis?"

"No," the young technician giggled. "It's what we anime folks refer to as your 'Ragnarok'. It means the end of your spirit's journey as it battles against doubt and frustration."

Otacon nodded enthusiastically beside her.

"…I need to get outta here," Snake said, killing the topic quickly. He began to rise from his table.

"Wait, Snake," Otacon interjected. "Stay, it's only eleven-thirty. I'll buy you another gallon of Kanterbrau."

Snake considered thoughtfully, staring at the ceiling with his mouth open.

"Okay," he conceded. "I'm just going for a slash."

The Hero of Shadow Moses cut a dejected figure as he tripped and stumbled his way across the public house towards the men's room. Mei-Ling and Otacon watched him go, shaking their heads in a kind of acted concern. Then, they started tongue wrestling again.

As he walked through the bar, Snake noticed all the other unemployed losers. Turkey Mulder was there, making out with Ronin Syoran. Fox Chicken watched, still too timid and neurotic to ask anyone for a dance. Snake had visited some dives in his time, but underneath this bar's classy exterior beat the heart of a New Orleans job centre.

Snake found the urinal in one piece, despite knocking over several pints of beer on the way there. The alcohol was really starting to kick in. After a few minutes, he remembered how to unzip his fly and was ready to drain. Suddenly, a toilet flushed in the cubicle to his left, startling him somewhat. Miraculously, Snake managed to zip his pants back up without castrating himself, before turning to see the man who had flushed leave the cubicle.

The man in question was large and ungainly. He looked like he might've been from Italian decent, Snake thought, like that fat guy in The Godfather who got strangled with chicken wire. He sweated as he walked, and wore a horrible Hawaiian tee that hadn't been washed in many months, spaghetti bolonese stains proudly displayed. Despite it having been almost a year since they last met, Snake recognised the man through all the changes.

"Vercetti!" Snake cried triumphantly. "Death to you!"

Snake charged at his now-fat enemy, knocking him back into the cubicle and kicking him in the shins. He was out for blood, but off his fucking face. Something had to give.

"Die!" The Chief of Self-Control screamed as he attempted to force Tommy Vercetti into the toilet headfirst. He kneed his opponent in the ribs repeatedly until Tommy gave it up, dropping to his own knees and having his face plunged into the lemon-smelling water. The former Vice City crime boss squirmed out of Snake's kung-fu grip, and crawled as fast as his overworked knees would carry him out of the cubicle.

"Wait!" Tipsy and sodden, Vercetti attempted to talk his way out of a painful death, but Snake was having none of it. He again ran at his foe, slapping him painfully on the chest and shoulders. Tommy tried to fight back, but a weighted slap to Snake's face did nothing but further infuriate him. A well-learned kick to Tommy's nether regions allowed Snake time to draw his SOCOM pistol from his jeans' back pocket; but by the time he had managed to whip it from the tight denim, Vercetti had already fled back to the crowded safety of the pub.

Needless to say, Otacon was somewhat surprised when a commotion erupted at the other end of the normally-serene public house (at least in comparison to the locals Snake used to frequent), but not enough to pry his lips away from Mei-Ling's. Instead, he watched the brawl out of the corner of his eye until he caught sight of a familiar mullet in the middle of it…

"Smake!" Otacon voiced a muffled cry of surprise. After five more seconds of intimacy, he and Mei broke off the kiss and headed to the fight that had burst out of the gents' room.

"I'll knife you back to the 80s, you dick!" The mullet-ed gunman was shouting when the pair reached the scene, and the watched in horror as Snake tried to wriggle his way out of the grip of two burly regulars. His opponent in the fight was being similarly restrained, though was hardly resisting. Otacon recognised him as Tommy Vercetti.

"Is he on the rebound or something?" Vercetti almost wept at Snake's companions.

"I dunno," Mei-Ling said, helping Vercetti up from the pub floor. "But it might be something to do with you and Rockstar Inc. trying to assassinate him at every given opportunity."

"Yeah, you fucked with him good," Otacon added for good measure. Tommy sobbed in reply.

Snake had begun to break down himself. He'd given up fighting the regulars he'd never met and was hugging them, telling them how much he loved them.

"You guys are the best," he told them, tears swelling in his eyes.

"Uh, Snake," Otacon interrupted. "Maybe we should be leaving."

"Yuh huh," The Stealth Master concurred, rising. He'd forgotten all about the fight, and was quite happy to be getting back to the apartment he now shared with Otacon, Me-Ling and a panda bear they'd adopted. After all, he couldn't jerk off in this crowd.

"Wait, what about me?" Vercetti asked, his wiseguy accent still vaguely apparent in his speech.

"What about you?" Otacon replied. "We're going home, and I suggest you should before Snake snaps out of this drunken haze."

"It's been a long time been a long time been a long lonely lonely lonely lonely lonely time," Snake sang horrifically out of tune, blissfully unaware of where he was.

"…Well, actually, I was hoping I could join you guys."

Otacon and Mei-Ling looked at Tommy in disbelief.

"Join us?" Mei said, not quite believing what she was hearing. Probably that last Barcardi-and-Coke. "Join Philanthropy?"

"Yeah," Tommy confirmed, doing his best impression of a lost puppy dog. "Rockstar Inc. fired me and the repo'd my car and I can't afford to pay tax on the mansion and I haven't got anywhere to sleep tonight but I've got loads of guns and stuff and I thought I could help you fight the Patriots and…"

"Woah woah woah," Otacon interjected. "Don't you know? There's no such thing as the Patriots. We started 'Philanthropy' as an excuse to meet up once a week to get bladdered and talk about the good ol' days."

"…Oh," Tommy said, after a pause. "How's that going?"

Otacon gave him a 'look around you' look, prompting a nod of realisation from the Vice City native.

"Well," Tommy began again. "Can I sleep at yours anyway?"

"What's in it for us?" Mei inquired.

"I'm glad you asked," Tommy replied, smiling for the first time. "I want to help you take down Rockstar Inc."

There was a pause while all the parties ran this thought through their heads. Tommy Vercetti, fighting on the side of Solid Snake, against the all-powerful Rockstar and their new figurehead Carl "CJ" Johnson. It would be a battle for the ages, like when Luke Skywalker caned Darth Vader in Return of the Jedi or that episode of Recess where some treehouse got nicked. The more Snake thought about it, the further sobriety jumped from his grasp.

"Oi, are we settling up now or what?" The bartender broke the silence.

--

The next day, Snake awoke feeling like Satan had shat on his brain from a great height. His arms, legs and stomach groaned and ached threats of revolution, and he could've sworn there was a cheese-grater stuck in his throat. That, and Tommy Vercetti's slimy face was staring into his.

"Fuck off," Snake said as the night's events came back to him.

"I made you breakfast," Vercetti said, grinning weirdly. Snake felt like hitting him, but couldn't muster the will. "…But I kinda ate it."

Snake groaned and rolled over, falling right off his sofa onto the floor.

"I said fuck off," Snake repeated, beckoning a minute-long period of loud silence.

Where was his life going? One minute, he's got a girl and is kicking ass and taking names on a regular basis. The next, he's on Otacon's apartment floor, looking up at a greasy Sicilian-American, completely spent, hung-over and losing interest in just about everything. He hadn't been the star of a game, proper, since Metal Gear Solid 1. ONE! That was years ago. And he'd seen the shots of MGS4: grey beard, one eye? Hideo would be hearing from the union. Oh, and Snake had become the loser of a group consisting of a 40-year-old techno-muppet hentai fan, a twenty-year-old student and Raiden.

"So…" Tommy said, kneeling down by Snake's barely breathing body. "No Patriots, huh?"

"They're about as real as Dracula. Solidus makes up a lot of shit after a few vodkas."

Snake expected Vercetti to chuckle, but the Solidus/vodka joke had ceased to be funny. Jduran89 turned in his literary grave.

"No offence, Snake," Vercetti began thoughtfully. "But what's the point in you, then?"

Good question. Snake's heart slowed while he considered a deep and philosophical answer.

"Ow!" Vercetti exclaimed as Snake punched him in the gut. Snake dragged himself up and headed off towards the kitchen for a cereal bar.

"Where are Otacon and Mei Ling?" Snake asked as he returned.

"They left for some comic convention three hours ago," Tommy said, still nursing his solar plexus. "I gotta say, she looked pretty fuckin' hot dressed as Rikku… don't know what was with that fur hooded coat and gun/sword thingy Otacon was wearing though."

Snake rolled his eyes and turned the television on. They both sat on the sofa, preparing to be regaled by the 11am news.

"Did you mean all that stuff last night, about taking on Rockstar?" Snake asked through a mouthful of dry Kellogg's.

Tommy looked at his feet sheepishly. "Nah. I just wanted a place to stay."

"Just as well," Snake mused. "What chance has a pair of washed up losers like us got against the best games company on the planet?"

**INTERMISSION  
Author's Note:  
**Chicken Fox Productions would like to thank Rockstar Inc. for  
their continued financial support, superb video game titles and fellatio!  
Rock on, Rockstar! Woo!  
**END**

They continued to watch in silence for a while. The news went on: the movie review became the sport, the sport became the political broadcast, the politics became the headlines. Tidal wave this, celebrity that. Futuresuperstar, having failed miserably to get his fanfiction published, had re-posted Dawn of the Concealed, clamed a reporter. No news of military coups in small African nations or international arms crises. Boring.

"We could sell out to Electronic Arts," Vercetti suggested. Snake didn't dignify it with an answer.

"I've got it!" Snake said at last. He closed his eyes and unweighted his chest: "We'll retire."

Vercetti looked at Snake, wondering about the after-effects of alcohol binges.

"That doesn't sound like fun," Tommy said. "What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"Look around you, kid. Everywhere, people are dragging their careers on or falling apart afterwards. Some are making comebacks and falling flat on their faces, their appeal lost and their waistlines expanded. Legends are becoming losers with every passing second. Ric Flair. George Best. That Formula 1 guy who was too fat to fit in his car…"

"What's your point? We're like those guys already."

"Exactly," Snake said, standing up. " We'll go out in a blaze of glory and dignity, getting as many people to notice us as possible. We'll win the hearts of men and women around the world with one last hurrah. Then, we'll prove that retirement can be a good thing, and sail around the world and break stuff!"

"Wow," Tommy said as it dawned on him. "We'll be respected forever!"

"That's right," Snake said. "And we'll bring as many people down with us as possible. Get me a phone book, a Stinger missile-launcher and my bandanna."

Twenty minutes later, and they were prepared. Snake, having left Otacon a post-it note on the fridge, looked ready for the kill, and Vercetti made good use of one of Mei-Ling's girdles beneath his Hawaiian shirt. They stared into each other's eyes: enemies, rivals, partners. Revered by cool people and geeks alike around the world.

They were ready to kick up a fuss.

"Ready?" Tommy asked, cocking a shotgun.

"Ready. Ready?" Snake replied, loading his SOCOM.

"Ready. Ready?"

"Yeah… you go on ahead. I just need to do something."

"Alright, motherfucker!" Vercetti screamed, and slammed the apartment door open. A second later, and he was running off down the hall like some psychopath tourist. _Dickhead_, Snake thought. _Like I'm finished yet._

Snake took a deep breath, and picked up the phone. He sat on the sofa one last time, placed the phone on his lap, lifted the receiver and dialled. His heart leaped as ringing sounded in his ears. Someone picked up, and said hello.

"Hey, it's Dave," the cloned former Foxhound operative, hero, emotional wreck, fanfiction star and butt of cyberspace jokes greeted.

"How're you doing, Meryl?"

--

**One last author's note:**

Golly gosh, folks, is Snake retiring or isn't he?

Well, you'll never find out, because I certainly am. After two years of Deathmatches, scathing reviews, Internet feuds, new friendships, dicketry and long, drawn out and unfinished yarns, this is Chicken Fox's last fanfiction.

My personal thanks go to everyone who has ever reviewed me. The flamers, the detractors, the detailed critiquers. My friends and my enemies, my… dare I say it, fans. Apologies to all those who asked me for reviews and whom I never got back to, and all the people who followed Legacy of Blood only for me to retire on their arses before the final chapter.

Special thanks go to Josh, for being the butt of my jokes. Shade Wolf, for making me the butt of his. Shelby, for always being civil to me even when I was jerking people around. Pablo, for all the support, respect and dependency. And Steve, for being an inspiration, an equal, an opponent and a bloody good friend.

Ladies and Gentlemen, after two years and nine fanfictions, it is very, very, hard to say… goodnight.

_Laurence Thompson, Great Briton, twat and closet nerd, 2005_


End file.
